My birthday is not my
favorite day of the year. I don't dread getting older. In fact, I really enjoy
getting older because it means I haven't let the grim reaper haul me away.
It's not my favorite day
because of the gifts I get and it seems like the longer I live the more my
family thinks I need gifts to prove their love for me. Also, the longer I live,
the dumber the gifts keep getting. I get ties that I never wear, pajamas that I
never wear and gift cards from Starbucks that I never use. If you're on the back side of sixty I'm sure
you know the routine.
Well, this year they
outdid themselves. While my wife and I went out to a quiet breakfast to fortify
ourselves for the afternoon onslaught of children, grandchildren and great
grandchildren, my sons removed my favorite chair and replaced it with the
"latest thing" in personal comfort.
When we returned from
breakfast, the entire family was waiting with happy expectant grins wrapped
around their faces. A sea of white teeth spewed out the traditional
"surprise". Then my daughters blindfolded me and led me to the back
of my house and into my personal man cave.
Everyone crowded into the
room and the girls removed my blindfold revealing a brand new black recliner
made of some kind of material I had never heard of. According to them, it was
supposed to do everything but cook my breakfast. I really wasn't surprised. My
wife had been nagging me for the last couple of years to get rid of my old
eyesore and get something that was more comfortable. However, we both knew it
wasn't my comfort that she was thinking about. It was her desire to have
furniture that didn't have to hide from our friends.
I was trapped because of
my life long lectures to my children on accepting gifts which included a smile
and a thank you to the gifter. So, with a smile on my face and a "I hate
the damned thing" in my mind, I thanked my family for their thoughtful
gift.
When the family left, my
wife asked me if I liked it, even though she knew I didn't. However, she knew I
was stuck. I had to say yes and thank her and hug her and sit in it and say how
comfortable it was.
It wasn't comfortable.
Comfort means to relax and let your muscles turn to jelly and your mind go numb
and the chair and your wife not say nasty things to you because you spill your
coffee or get food stains on it. That was my old chair. It didn't give a damn
what I did to it. It was like a faithful dog, always ready to comfort me no
matter how many times I left it out in the rain.
Oh well, I'll have to
slowly break it in. I'll house train like a new puppy. I'll start by giving it a
name. I think I'll call it Lo-Jack and then my wife can send it to fetch me
when I'm sneaking a snort from my stash hidden in the wood pile. Maybe it'll
get caught in the rain and become a real chair.
gs batty/2.17.2015
written for
http://www.josie2shoes.com/p/two-shoes-tuesday.html
